


Fall

by LadyoftheShield



Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: AU, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 07:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5154845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheShield/pseuds/LadyoftheShield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin helps Rose with the harvest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Request from numberonepartydad at tumblr. Ties in with this story by shiitaketissues: http://shiitaketissues.tumblr.com/post/95920798025/slave-beebs-express-tickets-to-hell

“We’re going to leave these in the ground during the winter,” Rose said as she snapped the largest leaves off plants Martin had tentatively identified as lettuce. “We’ll cover them with mulch and leave it until spring so we’ll have an early spinach harvest. Make sure the mulch is not too thin. A few inches is ideal.” 

Martin scooped up a double pawful of mulch from the nearby wheelbarrow and paused, uncertain. He knew how to kill, how to steal food, how to lie and push his muscles past their limits. Growing, nurturing, tending - this was another lifetime entirely. 

“Spread it like this,” she said, demonstrating with a pawful of mulch. “Over the ground I just cleared.” His dark eyes observed her movements and after a pause he mimicked them clumsily. “You’ve got it,” she said with a gentle smile, touching his shoulder. “That should be enough for this section.”

She showed him how to pick the tender snap peas off the vine, gently pinching the pods at the top of the stem to keep the delicate vine from tearing. When they reached the end of the crop, she bit into one, humming appreciatively as she handed the other half to him. 

“They’re very sweet this year,” she said as it crunched in his mouth like ash.

“Brome will eat those peas like candied chestnuts,” Rose warned, “we need to get them straight to Teaselpaw when we’re done here. Pass me that basket, will you? I think this cabbage is ripe.”

The rough straw of the basket scraped against his paw as he handed it over. Strange how quickly perceptions changed. In the slave quarters, straw had been the softest thing available. But compared to the flaxen Noonvale mattresses, it was hard and itchy. 

He glanced up and watched Rose work for a moment. Her movements were deft and sure. It took her minutes to empty the first row, even after she had to use a knife to cut the last one free, and then Martin turned back to the mulch.

They worked in silence, she harvesting the vegetables and explaining her motions, he coming behind her to cover the bare ground in mulch and compost. 

“That’s the last of them,” she said when the barrow was emptied, standing up to dust off her paws. “We just need to spread the hay and clean the tools for the winter.” Stained with earth, her brown skirt fluttered in the wind and stray pieces of mulch stuck in her fur. Without thinking, his paw shot out and picked one off her brow. 

“Oh! Thank you,” she said, patting down her dress quickly. “That pesky mulch gets everywhere. That reminds me- Auntie Poppy is probably done sewing your winter coat by now. Once we drop these off at the kitchens and clean the tools, we should go take a look and see how well it fits. You’ve filled out some since the fitting, but I think she anticipated that.”

Gathering her shawl around her shoulders, she lifted the basket of cabbages and carrots. He followed, wheeling the almost empty barrow behind her.

Noonvale’s gardening shed was as big as the prison pit. The solid oaken walls were covered in tools- rakes, hoes, and things Martin couldn’t name. The wheelbarrow rested next to the door as Rose wiped it down with a waxed cloth. In his paws, the small gardening knife felt like a dagger. Thick black mud from the garden dripped off the blade, pooling onto the stone floor. 

Plap. Plap. 

His paw tightened around the wooden grip. Death and charred flesh hung on the wind. Fire smoke coiled in his lungs, its heat clinging to his thin tunic as he tried not to look at the pair of charred bodies leaning against the rubble, hands still interlocked. The silhouettes of Barkjon and Tullgrew lay in the flames, black with soot and just as lifeless save for her gasping breaths. 

Stirring, Tullgrew met his eyes. Confused and dull with pain, her eyes slid from Martin to the east. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Already knowing what he would find, he followed her line of sight to the hooded figure lying in the sand, red staining the brown beach around him. Keyla’s dark tunic concealed the blood well, but the telltale red smeared on his jaw and the dull glaze in his eyes confirmed the truth. Tullgrew’s breathing hitched, and her eyes squeezed closed. A low gurgle issued from her throat, then all movement stopped.

“Martin!”

He started. Red blood flowed down the dagger, and for a moment he wondered if it was Keyla’s blood, or-

The blade tugged against his hand. Bemused, he let go, then heard Rose’s quiet “I think that’s clean enough, Martin.” Her skirt tore, and strips of brown cloth wound around his hand.

He wanted to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come. His throat had long healed since he’d screamed himself raw at Marshank. So had Brome’s broken arm, Rowanoak’s burns and the lump on the back of Rose’s head.

So why wasn’t he over this yet?

Rose’s arms had curled around his shoulders, but she was tense, uncertain. This was out of her element and they both knew it. She had no idea what to say, what he needed or wanted to hear. And he knew nothing she could say or do would be enough. The words he wanted to hear had died with his family.

She leaned out, and pushed the shed door shut. Tentatively, she stroked his brow. “...Everyone’s preparing for the feast tonight. No one will hear you Martin.”

Her words knocked in his defenses. All the emotion he’d tried to keep out of his mind flowed in like biting wind rushing over the northern shores. Leaning against Rose, Martin buried his face into her shoulder. Trembling, he yielded to grief.


End file.
